The puddle of me
after Breema body-work, July, 1995
E. Fleischman
She is pushing the meat that surrounds my skull.
She communicates presence to my face bones.
“I’ve got it,” she assures,
the ball of bone and liquid,
rolling from one hand to the other,
draining its concepts into the mat.
My face is a house in twilight;
sounds come from my mouth
like the calls of the distant members
of a family after supper in summer.
My skull
is a notebook,
on a mat,
on a floor,
on Oakland, California;
My muscles are parked cars on the street;
my eyes are flowers opening
at dawn
and closing
at dusk,
articulate with perfume;
my face is a fence
with a gate
and a house inside.